


Poetic Garbage

by Who_Is_To_Say_Im_Infallible



Category: Original Work, Poetry - Fandom, poem - Fandom
Genre: Cool, Creative, Dress, Family, Future, Love, Poet - Freeform, Poetry, Rhyme, Sad, Salt, Short, Sibling, Small, Summer, Sweet, Youth, bad, collection, garbage, loving, neat, ode, original - Freeform, originalstory, poem, quick, seasoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Is_To_Say_Im_Infallible/pseuds/Who_Is_To_Say_Im_Infallible
Summary: A small collection of poems I wrote a few years back that includes:- regret for not taking responcibility- the end of summer- how young people are the future- if written works can expire from the public conciousness- how authors handle romance- a poem from an older brother to their more successful little brother- a responce poem to the ladder about watching siblings slip away- silly opinions (like not liking pepperoni pizza)- what it's like to play with salt on a desk while overthinkingEnjoy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Poetic Garbage

**Author's Note:**

> Titles of Poems:  
> 0\. You Took My Breath Away  
> 1\. An Ode to the Young  
> 2\. The Immortal Expiration Date of Words  
> 3\. Writing in Love  
> 4\. Unpopular Opinions to Rile People Up  
> 5\. End of Summer Twilights  
> 6\. Sewing Family at the Seams  
> 7\. Fishing in the Stars  
> 8\. Seasonal Dress  
> ____________________________________________

You Took My Breath Away

To reach for something  
Means to push away.

Whether it be the air  
That twists around your tongue  
Or the person in the crossfire;  
The blame rests squarely on the unsung.

The steeping hiss of the bullet that barely missed  
Crashed onto the target just as practiced  
Even though it left you bone bare and supple.

You can't be held responsible  
For a breath you never took  
Until that breath stops forevermore  
Since you crawled into the depth's nook.

An Ode To The Young

Roses are red, and violets are blue.  
The school year is dead  
And nothing is new.  
This is undoubtably true.

I dream of what I had said  
Before the horrid halls went "boo!"  
But now when I hit the bed  
I see that my understanding grew.  
This is undoubtably true.

My class is quite ahead  
Of the sky's great view,  
But trapped inside the warm bedspread  
Is where we lie in the queue.  
This is undoubtably true.

We feel as if we are on our deathbed  
When we see the crest of the clue.  
We stand misled  
From what remains unsaid  
For no one ever read the room.  
This is undoubtably true.

We say it as it is from what we brew  
In the stormy clouds and sharp arrowhead  
That is our future growing like bamboo.  
We march in truth with obligation as a tattoo  
And this, I promise, is absolutely true.

The Immortal Expiration Date of Words

When does my favorite book become too tired?  
They say "Words do not age" to the naive.  
Shakespeare's tangled words still transpire.  
Amazing how it has not retired!

For Shakespeare's work alone is not desired.  
Understanding melts like foam to weave  
Without a guide its flow uninspired.  
The comprehension of English to grieve.

Do works of art in words since rot become retired?  
While some works never reach the End's dark eve  
Others die out when we grow tired.  
The competition of poems we leave to the naive.

Writing In Love

The need for love in a story is odd.  
The way it bleeds into every plant in the sod.  
How the characters can be inseparably awed  
From nothing more than a short nod.

To force a kiss when they do not melt should be outlawed.  
When the people within the world do not mix then the "love" is flawed.  
Making the scenes to be the subject of laud  
Simply makes me ill like an beached cod.

There is only one reason I can think that would make this trend so broad,  
And that is that the love is not between the characters' god,  
But rather the author's love for the piece like a lightning rod.  
They capture their love for their work as a picture from a tripod.

Their ways of making their worlds with needless romance clawed.  
Never again will I stand for stories who have not fought  
For their freedom of the cliches that keep them in a linear wad.  
Then again, perhaps love comes in more shapes than Sought.

Unpopular Opinions to Rile People Up

My ideas are sometimes not mainstream.  
For example, I hate mint ice-cream.  
I also hate soda with it's horrible burning.  
The taste of anything fizzy I wont be learning.

I also despise all the strange makeup.  
It's time-consuming pretty pricy products do not make me look grown up.  
At the pizza parlor pepperoni will never be on my pizza pie  
Because it's terrible taste will never satisfy.

Please don't sue me but hear me out;  
Harry Potter is overrated and to that I have no doubt.  
Call me crazy but Taylor Swift isn't half bad,  
Especially next to that new popular song that just makes me mad.

Your crazy TV shows mean nothing to me at all.  
The protagonists are lack-luster and they talk in a drawl.  
Glee, Friends, the Office, you name it- I won't be wasting my time.  
The obsessions around it I'll never get - it should be a war crime.

All in all, I might've lost some friends today.  
However, I won't let my unpopular opinions take foul play.  
I will probably continue to keep these things true my entire life.  
I consider it a win because after all is said and done I will be rid of strife.

With my ice-cream mint-free  
And soda far away from me.  
With no makeup to pay for  
And pepperoni pizza out the door.

With Harry Potter gone and out.  
With my old Taylor Swift album to shout.  
With no more TV shows to know  
And through all of this I have not one regret to show.

End of Summer Twilights

We start today anew with what we have to offer,  
And what will happen before and after I won't have to bother.  
Watching the words blend like paint.  
Throughout my sweet summer days I have met no saint.  
The few years left I have are ones I know not,  
And the pink clouds of wonder I stare at a lot.

Where I will end up and where will I go soon  
That's one little-big question that can pop like a balloon.  
These ugly rhymes I do not plan to keep much,  
But if my future depends on it I will do as such.

Sewing Family at the Seams

I can wish for a lot of things, but wishing for a new brother isn't going to happen.  
I'm stuck with the kangaroo of a man that is my dearest younger brother.  
I'm sitting in his house with a chain around my ankle with my smarter younger brother.  
My weighted steel soles ripping holes in the pavement as I ignore my wise little brother.  
He locked me in this cage of a mansion and makes me grinning pancake like a good little brother.  
His smile as he gives me my breakfast in this dimly lit bedroom like my confident younger brother.  
His fancy chairs lean back and scoff at me like my more successful little brother.  
He presses his petty purple pins into my blue bubble of a day until it pops.  
I tell him I'm working overtime again and he holds me down saying  
"That isn't going to happen."

As if he were a bad little brother.

There are many things that aren't going to happen.  
I won't get a promotion and I won't retire early with my disciplinary folder bursting with last warnings.  
After all, my boss is my darling younger brother.  
He says he keeps me in payroll against the manager's wish with pity, oh my little brother.  
He owns the business yet when asked who did it all he says "we did it" - that stupid younger brother.  
I pay him back with hours worked and stay up till I collapse.  
He has the audacity to pick me up and beg me to sleep like a foolish younger brother as I tell him  
"That isn't going to happen."

I could throw boiling hot tea at my dancing younger brother.

I'm "working too hard" he shakes me with my failures grabbing at my stomach as I fall.  
He's "worried that I'll collapse at work again" and puts a hand on my shoulder like a caring little brother.  
I'm baked into a poisonous pumpkin pie by my amazingly talented little brother.

He "remembers the good days when we used to talk like friends" as if there ever was such a time.  
I see no difference between a waxed window and my little brother with the thin dried film lacing the crystal window so he can't see out each day.  
I'm certain he sees me as a wax statue that melts away under the sun's hearty task,  
But when I ask if he'll lose my undeserving phone number he says to me that  
"That isn't going to happen."

I tell him to let me quit and live my life on the streets alone and in peace, but he's a stubborn one.  
He won't let me accidentally work through my meals.  
He yells at me to be happy and get someone to live my life with like a calm younger brother.  
He screams that I need to go out to parties and take weekends off like a impatient little brother.  
He tells me not do overtime and go home after work each day like a formal younger brother.  
But when I look back at him I can only think to say one thing to my loving little brother:  
"That isn't going to happen."

Fishing in the Stars

My older brother is a handful. This kind of stuff isn't new.  
I've known him only half my life since he moved to England as a kid my cranky big bro.  
I've always kind of wondered what banter we could've had if he had grown up around here.  
He learned the English way of thinking and the English way of ticking like a hilarious big brother.  
There's nothing wrong with it, but the stubbornness he's learned knows no bounds.  
He tends to refuse to give up and stare into the void all night at his laptop screen working.  
But this kind of stuff isn't new.

I've looked after him ever since he got back just a few short years ago.  
I hooked up our emails so I can see how the job applications were going for my big bro.  
I felt my skin shatter like glass each time an email started with "REJECTED."  
He turned up at my place two years ago and I gave him a job at my company.  
His eyebrows shone with glee as he painted on a new face to fit the office air.  
However, by the second day he was on thin ice with the manager, oh my lovely big brother.  
But this kind of stuff isn't new.

I helped him move in to his new two room apartment and his cheeks were pump and round.  
His hair was washed and his spirit was milk white like an angel of a big brother.  
Yet after a few months I saw his cheekbones reach out through his paper-like face.  
His eyeballs rolling out onto the floor as he walked down the hallways like a zombie.  
But this kind of stuff isn't new.

I'd finally had enough of watching him suffer when I saw him hit the ground like a wet rag.  
I took him to the hospital while his skin was as white as the financial documents.  
My big brother seems to not care at all when he walks with a limp and his hair is oily.  
All that matters to him is that the statement is done by Monday that determined big bro of mine.  
But this kind of stuff isn't new.

I took him to my house and plan on keeping him there  
So that his face is pink like a healthy big brother.  
Until the key to the front door in my back-pocket by my sneaky big brother.  
I slam my foot down when he tells me that he can go out on his own.  
I tell him his skin is cracked and his arms are sore like a really old big brother.  
He pushes me back and says that  
"This kind of stuff isn't new."

Yet I've made good effort in seeing him often.  
His eyes are back in their sockets and his voice is less broken.  
He is a clock on the wall that's three ticks too slow like a laggy program.  
His cogs and wires don't seem to be the right size to make the machine walk straight,  
But I will be there for him until our teeth fall out of our ancient gums,  
And our video-games are out of date with my superhero-like big bro.  
When he looks at me I want him to see a hero and not just his boss.  
Through all this I'll make his starry night fall forwards.  
I'm confident that this kind of stuff isn't new.

Seasonal Dress

Salty fingers are grey as clouds compared to the white salt I trace  
In it I see nothing on the table but a pile of Na as it is with no purpose  
The table germs have eaten it's wealth and it's face has been skinned from the rocks  
But when I lead my finger through it the rocks pile up to fall in a wave once again  
And through all this I can't smell the scent of the salt

They stretch and weave around the Kansas flat table  
Earth's orbit does no justice here, it barely even spins to me  
All that is left before me is ashes of what once was and what could have been  
But here it is on my table, building itself a home  
And through all that I can't feel the soft grains of the salt

It's dancing song is silent and robust  
With no directions but a "move here and move there"  
The sky above in the salt has grains of the first television  
But the vision I can see in it is clear as a mirror's tight warp  
And through all this I can't hear the crashing bells in the salt

Below me I think of the salt and how it burns into the desk  
How its mirage is slow to dull and my fingers start to numb  
Yet as I do I see the beauty of a stop sign in the glass slippers of a princess  
How the triangle day I've made becomes a dress wafting in magic  
And all through that I can't sense the fair presence salt

The salt begins to take shape and a head and two arms are born  
Yet before the prince could join the ball the clock stuck one,  
And all throughout the class her salt began to shatter  
The glass slippers were no more, and yet the salty palace remained  
And all through this the princess rushed out of the salt

The salt has set and the waves have ceased  
The lights have turned off and my eyes have closed  
The salt has dried up in snowballs of bitterness  
And all through this I have learned to see the salt clearly in a seasoning dress

**Author's Note:**

> Do Tell Me Your Favorites!


End file.
